


Plum

by raelouise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Smut, lipstick kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raelouise/pseuds/raelouise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not famous!AU. Zayn has a lipstick fetish and Harry is a generous boyfriend, more than happy to oblige. </p><p> <i>He is a fainting maiden in a Victorian melodrama- over lipstick- but Harry’s mouth looks dangerous and Zayn wants it to slice him like a knife and leave waxy tattoos in it’s wake. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Plum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cantgetnoworse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/gifts).



> This was originally intended to be written for a three sentence fic meme- the prompt being Harry/Zayn + anything to do with cosmetics. Clearly it... sort of took on a life of it's own. The vast majority of it was written whilst listening to The Great Gatsby soundtrack, which worked rather well.

“Wait wait wait!” Harry insists with a drunken giggle, his limbs akimbo as he falls over himself trying to hide something from Zayn. One hand windmills through the air in search of balance, the other jams it’s way into a pocket and Harry takes to hopping until he falls forwards, forehead smashing into the wall- which is suspiciously clammy in that way that only club walls manage to be. Sweat and puke and lager, probably, now gumming up Harry’s curls. “Don’t, don’t-” He throws his spinning arm backwards with one finger raised, “One minute- you’re not looking at me, right?”

“I’m not looking, Harry,” Zayns says, amused but with the patience of a saint, “I’m ten seconds away from pretending I don’t know you at all, to be honest, love.”  

“Good!” Harry beams, and then... “Heyyyy! Hey! No shush! This is gonna be like, _mind blowing-_ don’t doubt me, Malik.”  

Harry Styles isn’t cool enough to throw around surnames in such a way, but Harry Styles is definitely cute enough to get away with it as far as Zayn’s concerned. All dumb and wonky and infectiously cheerful; a baby giraffe in a mop of a wig and chelsea boots. Zayn Malik’s _in love_ with a baby giraffe in a mop of a wig and chelsea boots and he doesn’t even want to wail in despair, he just wants Harry to get himself sorted so that they can go back to messily making out. Forever. Or maybe not forever. Just until they reach an empty toilet stall and get to more than kissing.  

“Haz?” He tries- reaching to pet at the other boy’s shoulder just as he spins around- 

“Yessss?” 

“...oh.” 

Harry’s lips are new. Different. Dark. Zayn can see it even in the gloom of the club’s bare lighting, how they contrast with his moon-pale skin. They are slicked with heavy lipstick. Somewhere between pin-up red and goth girl purple. Plum, Zayn thinks. Plum and uneven and wonderful. They pull out into a proud smile and Zayn feels his chest constrict. He is a fainting maiden in a Victorian melodrama- _over lipstick_ \- but Harry’s mouth looks dangerous and Zayn wants it to slice him like a knife and leave waxy tattoos in it’s wake.  

“Yeah?” Harry asks, with a coy dip of his chin. Zayn understands that he’s really asking _this is cool right? I look pretty? You like it?_ and nods, reaches to palm against Harry’s jaw- edging towards his coated mouth, but not quite getting there- 

“Yeah. Fuck, like yeah,” He assures him- words barely out before the taller boy is crowding him, one clumsy arm wrapping around his waist and a hand up in his hair, just above where it fades, in order to tip back his head.  

He presses his painted mouth to Zayn’s throat, nose against the peach fuzz of Zayn’s sheared hair, and begins kissing in earnest. Down from the warm tender spot below Zayn’s ear to the tracks of his thrumming veins and the ready path that leads to his clavicle. He puckers his lips and he drags them, sucks at soft spots, brushing Zayn’s skin in shallow lipstick prints and spit. The colours of it, the lipstick and the gold of Zayn, are jewel toned together. Art for Harry’s artist, to make him shiver and whisper nonsense.  

“Loos now?” Zayn whines [Zayn so rarely whines and yet his is quite delicious], dragging himself back from Harry’s attention. He tucks his thumb and finger beneath his chin, tilting it back until he can see the wine stain of worn makeup on his boy’s mouth; hooks his thumb nail beneath the blurred line of it and exhales. His eyes are as burnished as his glittering skin when he’s turned on. “You look- _fuck_ \- Harry, I’m so lucky, y’know?” 

The restroom is shockingly bright in comparison to the moodily shadowed bar- the floor-to-ceiling tiling grotty but white enough for the strip lighting to bounce off. Bright enough for details- the different swirls of jade in Harry’s big eyes, his low-lying lashes, flyaway curls. Zayn drinks Harry in with a stunned shake of his head and then, the other’s boy’s soft grey t-shirt a knot in his fist, tugs them both across to the row of mirrors. He needs to see where he’s been marked, his eyes immediately catching the reflection of his throat: the flowerings of reddish-purple there. Love bites that wont last. Hickeys he can smear with the rough pads of his fingers- and he does dance them over the mess of it.  

“Could I, could I have it?” He asks Harry awkwardly, guiding them backwards to crush up against a wall [out of the way, though the bathroom’s empty], “The lipstick?”

It’s in a small black tube, collared with silver when he uncaps it with a _click_. _MAC_ he reads and recognises it, from gifts Doniya had received for her last birthday- the gifts he’d watched her unwrap with extra interest; from the bountiful counters he’d lingered at before, with his his nails digging into his palms. The plastic is pleasantly warm from where it’s been tucked into Harry’s pocket but the lipstick looks fresh still when he winds it up. Slowly, slowly, savoring the twist and the peek of deep berry colour. His chest tightens again and he rubs his thumb over the angled tip of it- _has to_.  

“You knew?” He asks, palming at Harry’s jaw again. He’s overwhelmed. “You always know Harry, you’re so good. Have I ever even said?” 

“Once maybe?” Harry whispers. Too intoxicated to remember now, really. “I knew so you must of, mustn't you? This one I stole from Gemma- shit,” He tenses, then smirks, “She’s gonna beat me up, no way she won’t notice. Worth it though, yeah?”  

Gemma will murder Harry, or at the very least torture him until he agrees on paying for a replacement. But yes, worth it. This is a night Zayn’s prayed for. 

“Could I put it on you this time?” He asks, eyes already tracing the shape of Harry’s mouth as he swallows hard around the marble lodged in his throat, “Kiss it away? Please, I mean.” 

Harry shivers. “Please, you don’t need to say please _._ ”  

The first layer of lipstick pulls, reveals the bottom row of Harry’s teeth: uneven and ivory behind the swell of creamy plum. Pink gums. Hot puffs of breath against Zayn’s nervous fingers. The second glides smoothly as it intensifies the pigmentation; fills out Harry’s wide mouth. It’s almost obscene, caking over each little thread in his flesh, bleeding at the edges. Zayn admires it with a shy smile and then applies an indulgent third layer. Harry just waits, trusting.   

Once he’s satisfied, Zayn fumbles to re-cap the lipstick before he moves in to capture Harry’s darkened lips with his own, into a kiss that’s fevered. Fierce as a fight. He licks at the taste of lager in Harry’s mouth and grazes his teeth against the suede texture of his lips. Bites so that they swell beneath the waxiness. It’s a kiss that leaves Zayn with a stain slashed across his own mouth and an aching between his thighs. Has both of them breathing so hard their chests hurt, too. It’s just fucking lipstick, Zayn tries to rationalize, but it’s somehow _filthy_ and he’s never been quite so aroused.  

It’s raw, red raw, rocking up through his body. 

“Could we- ?” He mutters, casting a furtive gaze across the punk lad who’s just ambled in, and then to the nearest open stall door. 

“Let’s.” 

Zayn locks the door behind them with a practiced ease and Harry, none-too-gracefully, slips with a thud to his knees. Looks even more beautiful when Zayn can see him from above like this- craving him, pawing at his belt buckle, nosing at the flat of his belly. His hair is tangled and his cheeks glow, round and flushed warm, perfect for Zayn to cup. He goes doe-eyed when Zayn holds him, with a dopey curve of a smile and the point of his tongue dragging over the bow of his top lip, tugging a fresh wave of arousal through the pit of Zayn’s belly [whose knees buckle. _God_.]

“More of this, yeah?” Harry asks as he steals the lipstick back from his boyfriend, not quite as awed by the action of popping the lid and winding up the makeup within, far more interested in slathering on an elaborate amount of the stuff. Smacking his lips when he’s done and impatiently rucking up Zayn’s shirt so that he can pattern his abdomen with a flurry of kisses. An abstract painting across a canvas in the same colour as Zayn’s rich skin tone; floral bursts shot through by his hipbones, sticky tattoos over his tattoos. 

Another kiss for the outline of his cock through his jeans, a quick flash of his tongue and a _shit no, Haz, c’mon_. 

So, down go Zayn’s jeans and boxers and down goes Harry, too. Mouth a deliberately wide _oh_ as he sinks over an impressive measure of Zayn’s erection- until his nose meets the black tangle of his hair. He inhales the familiar musk that is Zayn Malik, along with a deep breath through his nose, and leaves a slick ring of plum less than an inch up from the hilt. As dark as it had been when Zayn had first seen it on Harry’s lips. Wrapped around veins that are throbbing so hard they make Zayn’s brain pulse, too.  

It seems especially dirty when Harry begins bobbing over him. Streaks of lipstick follow the wake of his tight mouth and he’s sure to suck them high, before swallowing him low again. Great wet stripes of the colour, precum too, gloss over Zayn’s cock. He keeps his eyes pried open to watch them meet, jolts forward violently when Harry pops off of him and reveals his wrecked mouth. It’s almost it’s natural shade of pink again, but his chin is damp with the same lipstick-precum-cocktail as Zayn’s shaft.  

He glances upwards, pupils dilated, and smiles a smile that suggests he’s shot back six whiskeys. It’s debauched, Zayn is almost ashamed- but not enough to keep himself from tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair and guiding back downwards, _love you baby love you baby love your lips_. Harry sighs, blissed out. Then he sucks and he licks and his eyes flutter closed like this is as much for him as it is Zayn. That’s what makes Zayn come- the fall of Harry’s lashes that he just catches before his head clatters back against the tiled wall and his knees hit the toilet bowl. Harry keens out his own orgasm seconds later and Zayn hadn’t even noticed that his boy had gotten a hand on his own dick, having been _so_ hypnotized by what Harry had been giving him.

Afterwards, after several slow, bitter kisses and hasty clean ups with wet tissue paper, they shuffle outside. Drop down to the curb in front of the club. Spent and sore, they curl close, chelsea boots winding around DMs; into each other and away from the eeriness that is an early morning following a late night. The cold breeze is shocking over their sweat sodden shirts and the rumbling quiet is like white noise, the sky still a pale drift above them. Insipid, so that all of the drunk stumbling [vomiting, crying] kids stand out starkly against the landscape. Little inked spiders splattered across a watercolour canvas. The lipstick is like watercolour, too: daubs of fading pink against their swollen lips, cheeks and chins.  

Zayn has the _MAC_ tube tucked safely in his fist still, terribly enamored with the weight of it and the smoothness of it’s plastic. He’ll buy Gemma a new one, even if it eats up all of his money, because he can’t imagine letting this one- his and Harry’s- go. He wants to use it often enough that it shapes to Harry’s pout. He wants to have Harry kiss him somewhere and leave a solid and a perfect print of his plum lips, one he could trace over with a tattoo gun. He wants to sweep it across Harry’s mouth and then just lay beside him and lazily admire it.   

“You okay babe? You look spaced,” Harry whispers, hoarse voice cutting through Zayn’s moment of reverie, his long fingers soothing his scalp, “Hey, if we pool all of our change together, we should have a taxi fair I reckon. You want a smoke first, yeah? Let me?”

“Let you-?” Zayn begins, but Harry kisses him quickly enough to shush him and begins fumbling in his pockets- rooting out Zayn’s Marlboros, his lighter- and then gently prizing the lipstick from his folded fingers- 

“Wait a sec, m’love.”

Again, for what seems like the hundredth time, Harry coats his ruined lips. Quick, clumsy strokes that don’t pretend to follow the shape of his mouth but compliment it all the same- then flicks his hazy gaze towards Zayn. Allows himself a dimpled smile once he’s sure that his boy’s studying him, his interest waking him up just a touch. He blows Zayn a sweet kiss, tosses the lipstick back towards his lap and lifts up a cigarette instead. Captures it and rolls his lips in to make sure that the colour paints the mottled end of it- 

“Yeah?” He exhales once the cigarette’s lit and glowing faintly. He holds it aloft so that Zayn can see the fresh feathered ring of makeup around the paper- “Smoke up, baby. Lippy, eh. Best idea I’ve had like ever, I think?” 

Zayn’s moan around his first drag from the fag is confirmation enough that Harry’s quite right and Harry makes a pleased sound of his own, somewhere between a  yawn and a giggle. 


End file.
